In the loneliest caverns of quarantine my fantasies were about ordinary things. Stale bowling alley pretzels that feel like chewing on a futon cushion. The shared exhaustion of subway platforms. The way a precise jukebox selection can clip jumper cables onto the waning energy of a filthy bar. The low hum anywhere you go of people having feisty conversations — with themselves, with you, with everyone in the universe — about the Mets bullpen. The diner at 3 AM, a few tables away from a guy who is hovering over a Philly cheesesteak like a feral dog, clavicles shining with semi-dried post-club sweat while a muted TV behind the counter displays the 7-day forecast.
I thought about these scenes constantly and I believe that I was not alone, that all of us felt this vague ache and even cried out for it, on Twitter in the middle of the night or in text messages or standing next to kitchen sinks. I am talking partly about intimacy but not specifically that; I am talking about the atmospherics of Out There, anywhere, the familiar drumbeat of a minor but undeniably very-decent night coalescing. I am talking, I guess, about a communion with vibes.
